


Big Damn Hero

by Impala_Chick



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Depression, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post-War, Post-World War II, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Chick/pseuds/Impala_Chick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for dark_fest 2012 prompt <i>Character does something he considers unforgivable - and is treated like a hero for it</i>. *implied Liebgott/Webster*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Damn Hero

The crisp San Francisco wind licked at Liebgott’s back as he made his way down Main Street, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“You’re a hero, Joe!” A kid with an American flag in his hand mock-saluted Liebgott as he passed. Liebgott didn’t even look up.

He had the crumpled commendation letter in his pocket. The one that said he was some big damn American hero, some good ‘ol boy for the things he did over in Europe. When he got home, his parents were beside themselves. His picture had been in the goddamn paper and there was no escape. Now everyone in the city recognized him and wanted to thank him for what he had done. He had only been home for a week. He felt like he was constantly itching. Itching to hide, itching to run away, itching to buy a sidearm and wave it around until everyone shut the hell up about him. No amount of scratching could stop the itch. A pounding had started just behind his eyes lately just to add insult to injury.

He couldn’t be inside his own house anymore. His family had stopped asking him about the war, but now they gave him looks. They stared at him like he might catch fire at any minute. It was fucking worse then them asking questions. They knew something was wrong but they didn’t know what to do. Neither did Liebgott, really. He just knew that he didn’t want to drive his cab yet. He didn’t want to be a stand-up citizen and he wasn’t proud to be some big damn hero, thank you very much. The next person that asked was going to get a punch in the face.

He looked out at the bay and took the letter from his pocket. He started ripping it to pieces and he watched as paper bits swirled through the air like snow before hitting the water and floating away.

Apparently the German really was a Commandant.

Too bad that didn’t ease his guilt.

He shouldn’t have told Sisk to shoot him. He shouldn’t have made Sisk shoot him in cold blood as he was running away. Hell, he would have shot the guy himself if he hadn’t missed the first time and wasn’t that the fucking worst of it. That was really why he couldn’t deal with this FUBAR situation he found himself in.

The German had still been a fucking human being and Liebgott had acted like a goddamned madman murderer and not even Webster could have stopped him. Webster hadn’t even been able to look at him after that. He should have known better.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

That thing, that person that had erupted that day in Austria - Liebgott didn’t recognize that person. But it had been inside him all along. And he found that person in the middle of fucking picture-worthy Austria in the broad daylight. On a beautiful day with birds chirping and crystal clear lakes and the whole nine yards, he could still end up acting like a Nazi. Of all the days for hell to break loose, Liebgott had never pictured it happening like that.

Liebgott looked up at the Golden Gate Bridge, sunlight glinting off of its huge red towers. He thought about what it would be like if his last walk was across that bridge. He thought about what it would feel like for the cold dark waters of the Bay to swallow him up. He thought about how everyone in the city would be flabbergasted that such a fine young man could do that to himself. But in the end he didn’t want to be a coward on top of everything else.

“Fuck!” he shouted at no one in particular. He scrubbed his hand through his hair and collapsed down on the grass. He picked at the hairs on his arm. When he pulled a hair out, he was satisfied with the stinging pain that would briefly envelope his arm. He kept at it until the sun started to fall towards the water.

Liebgott made it home in one piece, which his mother looked thankful for. He didn’t say anything and he didn’t even try to touch the food she left out for him.

The phone started to ring.

“If it’s another goddamned reporter, I am not home,” Liebgott shouted down the stairwell.

“It’s a man named Webster, says he knows you,” his mother shouted back.

Liebgott froze, not sure if he wanted to hear what would come through the line. Maybe Webster was calling to let him have it. Webster was the one who knew the true story. Webster knew how fucked up Liebgott was. Liebgott’s feet made the decision for him as he walked back downstairs and picked up the phone.

“Hey, Joe.”

“Hey, Joe? You call me out of the blue and that’s what you fucking say?” Liebgott was ready to hang up the phone right there, but he didn’t.

“That’s how people talk on the phone, Joe. They say hello first.”

Liebgott shifted his weight from one foot to another. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  
“Web, what is this about?”

“You should really call me David. Most everyone does.”

“Well I ain’t e’eryone, Web.”

“That’s true. I saw your picture in the Chronicle.”

“If you are calling to-”

“Shut up, Joe. They printed lies. You know those were lies. They want to give you a medal for that bullshit? Are they fucking insane? You made a man scared for his life. You ordered a man to kill another man when you couldn’t even do it yourself. You aren’t even a goddamned officer, Joe. There was no justice, no evidence, no proof. No nothing.”

“Web, I-”

“It’s like you were trying to prove the Nazis right.”

Joe started to cry then. He didn’t mean to. It just happened. Tears flowed down his cheeks and his whole body was shivering. He had no control anymore. He couldn’t even open his mouth to speak.

“Goodbye, Joe.” The phone clicked and Joe was completely and utterly alone. He was reminded of the cold waters of the bay.

Then his mom started to shout again.

Liebgott sat upright. He felt his cheeks damp with tears. He felt his shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest. He felt feverish and shaky. He realized he had been sleeping.

“Joe, phone’s for you. Some man named Webster.”


End file.
